


Silence Touch

by freefan1412



Category: D.Gray-man
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Freeform, Gen, Identity Issues, Inconsistent Memory, Memory Alteration, Memory Loss, Past!Allen - Freeform, Past!Allen is a Bookman Theory, Role Reversal, Self Confidence Issues, Self-Esteem Issues, kind of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-30
Updated: 2019-12-03
Packaged: 2020-11-08 09:49:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20833469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freefan1412/pseuds/freefan1412
Summary: The Noah Family was murdered. Allen didn't know who could have done it, didn't know how it happened. But in an alley, surrounded by unfeeling, grimy brick, rats scurrying about, he found himself faced with a choice.





	1. once upon a time

“What about....Allen?”

“No thanks.”

“You know, 'Allen' fits you. I'm going to call you that from now on.”

“No. Thanks. I already have a name.”

“You have an alias.”

“You're just wasting your breath. I'm just going to move on.”

“Ah, but the only thing that's going to change is your alias, isn't it?” A wide, not entirely nice grin. “Your name, because you have no other, will still be Allen. The name that I just gave you.”

“I _can't_ have a name. Are you dense?” Rustling of loose sheets of paper, the glare of light on round glasses. “You just want to leave your mark on something separate, something blank for the sake of your own ego. Like a toddler painting on walls. Like a child pulling off the wings of a butterfly. How childish are you? In case that name actually sticks, you'll have ruined my life.”

The grin widened even more. “I know.”

A resigned, exasperated sigh, a figure turning away. “I don't have a name. I don't want one either.” A door opened, familiar voices somewhere else in the house. “And if I could, it would not be you giving to to me and it certainly would not be Allen. Isn't that the name of the dog?”

“Possibly...” There was no shame in this admittance. “Allen it is.”

“Are you even listening to me?!” The thud of a heavy tome thrown and smacking into the wall.

The sound of laughter. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had this sitting on my hard drive since forever.


	2. there was a promise

_“Don't stop. Keep walking.”_

Drawn together, summarized in a single world that could stand in for a name, the result was 'Walker'. Or possibly 'Keeper'. Or else 'Stopper'. Seeing that 'Walker' seemed to capture the spirit of Neah's last words best, he determined to be from now on known as Walker. _Allen_ Walker, to be more precise. Certainly no one who would have any connection to a Noah or the clan as a whole or anyone else of importance in general.

_Take that Neah. See how it is. The Fourteenth Noah, 'Neah', is from here on going to be known as Allen Walker. Ha!_

_...it seems that in the end I am just as childishly cruel as you..._

The person calling himself Allen Walker wished he had had better sense than he apparently did – just some stronger self-preservation instincts and he'd be...not in this situation.

On the other hand, though, it was not as though he had not thought his decision through - from all angles, backwards, sideward and upside down – as much as the lack of time had allowed him.

When he had uttered those words, that may turn out to be his own last words, it had already been too late for anything.

Neah lay dying from wounds that even his Noah constitution could not heal him from and those not even being the fatal strike. Golden eyes dulling, life’s blood painting the walls. No help and of any kind, though humans had been around plenty. Humans, so many eyes, countless able to catch a glimpse, and an unknown number of those that might have had contacts of the dangerous kind. From the first moment where Neah had collapsed there, he had been living (dying) on borrowed time.

Briefly, Allen wondered how he had had ended up where he had been in the first place and why he had remained there, given that with the Ark he would have been able – ah, but no. The Ark had been compromised, he remembered. Neah must have had dragged himself on foot to where he had collapsed (alone, all by himself and not knowing who was dead, who was alive and who was out for his blood and who wasn't, and _why_) given that any dimensional travel would have been too high profile and only dragged more danger to him.

Allen had found him. And Allen had offered.

It was a mere whim of fate that Allen had been there. If such a thing existed. With the spare breath Neah still had, he had not tried to get Allen to change his mind or, God forbid, question him on his resolve or reasons. No one knew better than Allen what he had had to give up and he certainly hadn't needed a dying man to remind him, and Neah, well. Neah hadn't been able to turn him down; him or anyone. Wasn't in his nature not to take what was offered to him, in any situation, from a cake in the afternoon to a life, either.

Thinking on it, Allen had to ask himself if Neah had even been able to believe that Allen had meant it, or if he had just taken the offer because for him it had been the end anyway. Per chance even permanently, because he was the _unprecedented_ Fourteenth. Allen hoped Neah had believed in him. Because Allen believed in Neah; enough to surrender his life and commit what was left of it to an infinite mission that took everything from him. That would haunt him for an indefinite amount of time with threats to his life, with uncertainty, with fear of every shadow and every person he passed on a street. That Neah knew Allen did what he did because they had somehow become friends and because it was _Neah,_ not anyone else, was one of the few things he still wished – could wish for – in this life.

Damn him, but he loved that bastard - loved him like an idea, like an ideal, like faith – like someone people died for in doves.

Sighing, he tugged a strand of rust red hair behind his ear. Uncertainty on that matter was certainly going to claw at him till the end. Just bloody wonderful. No doubt, for the vague future, Allen would be busy swearing to Timcampy about Neah to transmit his sentiments beyond his timelimit. It was all Neah's fault. Seriously. And Allen's, for falling for the future only Neah saw.

Neah had not been able to afford to die then and there. Not because he didn't want to die like no one wanted to die, not because unlike with the other Noah, he might not be reincarnated, but because he still had things to do – those that had to be done no matter what, by him because he _desired_ it like a drowning man air (and when people like him wanted something, the world more often than not bowed to their will), and by _him_ because there was _no one_ else who _could_.

Allen was one of the few (very, very few) people who knew that about Neah, though not because he had been told, but because he understood Neah, had read it out of his comments and actions or inaction, expressions and silences over a long, long time. Allen knew what he did because of familiarity and belief – belief that Neah _would_.

Neah hadn't known that Allen did. Probably not. Not because it escaped his notice or because he had been careless or the like, but because knowledge at times was far more dangerous than any blade. Allen knew this, knew it very well. The person he had been before he had allowed 'Allen' to get stuck had known it even better, though he had lacked the experience then.

If he had had that, maybe he would have been wise enough to guard his heart better. Against trust and belief - faith. Against affection and fascination. Against the pull of a vibrantly burning person and the desire to see as he saw.

Then again, had he had the experience before running into Neah and this particular species of underground happenings, he would not have been there to run into Neah, because clearly, the aforementioned was his Achilles heel.

Thus, Allen was.

Truth be told, though, Allen had no idea exactly _what_ it was that Neah wanted to accomplish. For all he knew, Allen might have just (<strike>don't think on it compartmentalize it's just like going out for a trip to the next town just might take a while nothing more nothing like the End nothing like _gone_ just like that his dead body not even a mile away-</strike>) offered his body to someone who'd use it to destroy the world....

Allen would have liked to know for what end goal his body and ultimately his life would serve, but he did not need to know. In truth, it had been only a choice between which consequences he could live with.

Confusion and uncertainty of the future reigned. No one knew if they might see the next day or if their beloved people would or who of those beloved people it was that killed them all.

Everything had gone to hell within the blink of an eye, half of the famed family dead before the first tears had finished drying (quite literally), no one knowing anything and accusing each other, lashing out on the suspicion that they might be out for their blood, and Allen hadn't been able to think as fast as things had happened (or as he had heard of them) and then there had been Neah who he was able to find, and that, if nothing else, was a decision he could die with and did not want to live without. 

...now, if only he could survive from hereon and avoid the rest of the crazy lot who may or may not be out for Neah's blood or his blood if, indeed, there was anyone still alive at all…

...and if not, there was danger of an entirely different kind...

Everything else, Allen no longer had to think about. Just about himself and how to survive; the consequences of today were not his business, not really, unless they made themselves relevant for his continued survival, which he had every intention of not allowing, because messing with powers over his head was not wise when trying to cling to life.

That...well that would all be up to Neah, once he awoke. Or maybe he already knew everything he needed to know. How was Allen supposed to know?

Pulling the hood of a dirty cloak over his telltale hair, Allen Walker, a man without existence, identity or future, disappeared.


	3. in the passage of time

Allen had a slight problem. See, he wasn't aging. All in all, Allen wasn't as unfamiliar with the phenomenon as the rest of humanity, however it had previously been very decided on _not_ including him into its sphere of influence.

It had occurred to him some five years ago when he had come by a reflective surface that his appearance (for once actually clean enough to be visible) had changed strangely little. Now some other five odd years later, there was little denying the fact.

_Well, if nothing else_, he mused, kneading his temple in the room of a cheap inn, _this pretty much clinches that there is a seed of not-huma inside me. Good to know that it actually worked._

In one way it was definitely a weight off his shoulders. In another, this meant that Allen had to start planning in the long term now. Like, seriously long term as there was no longer a time-limit given by his own mortality. For sure, Allen had assumed that if Neah didn't wake up practically immediately, then he would wake up sometime before Allen died a natural death. It had just been a given, not by the necessity of Allen's limited mortality, but by the notion of 'what else could it be?' Clearly, Allen now had an alternative.

Just bloody great.

“You know,” he said to thin air and Timcampy, “I never thought this job would include so many annoying peculiarities. The running for the rest of my life for my life I had kind of expected as a worst case scenario, but not only is that helpfully lacking, it's come to the point where I'm getting troubled by the usual stuff people are troubled by. Where to live, how to earn money and the like -”

Not for the first time was he muttering his complains (occasionally also serious musings) to Timcampy, without any particular reason in mind for doing so. Maybe as a ways to stifle the silence lest he go mad from lack of human contact, or maybe so that Timcampy could relay his agonies to the future occupant of his body or maybe just for the heck of it, but there was little denying that he had come by the troubling habit of thinking aloud thus risking leaking things that better not be leaked and the fact that it helped him organize his thoughts.

Also not for the first time, Allen considered that perhaps he had already misplaced some important bits of his mind. He had never done something as stupid as voicing his thoughts before. He had also never been one to moan about his circumstances. Having nothing to do but waiting for over a good decade while at the same time grooming his paranoia was bound to do not good things to his head. 

If he were completely truthful, he would also add that him speaking aloud was also quite often phrased in such a way that it was obviously addressed to a person, who, also obviously, was not only absent but also six feet under in a manner of speaking for a good number of years. It was not healthy or stable in any way, but that was precariously close to admitting that he had indeed lost a few things up in his head. Which wouldn't be as horrible as he made it out to be if sanity didn't tend to take reason (logic, common sense - call it what you will) along with it, which was in turn something Allen could really do without considering he had to not only stay alive but also unnoticed, even more so now that his face was going to remain unchanged for...basically as long as his body survived.

...but since he wasn't completely truthful, he didn't admit to it.

“Setting up fake identities is probably a good idea. I'll even be able to give them time to age to usefulness. But what names should I use...? Hmm...if I want a lot then I'll have to manage them all, since leaving a trail on them kind of is what makes them worth making in the first place. But that's lots of work. How would I do that anyway...? Maybe I should head to Italy? Join the organized crime there and learn some stuff...they got to have the know-how...except that Italy is the home of the Vatican...but don't they always say you're safest in the lion's den? Just got to hide Timcampy then. Come to think of it I should probably hide Timcampy a lot from now since he's kind of difficult to mistake and going through the trouble to set up identities that have nothing to do with each other only to have it ruined by the golem would be kind of stupid...I wonder if I should walk there or take the train. I mean, you did say to keep walking, but I highly doubt you meant that literally...”

That was in the end what he decided to do and what served him well in ways of staying underground, figuratively, and far away from legally reported paperstuff and pictures that might one day end up haunting him. Smuggling out of the country in the same way he had smuggled in, Allen left a mafia famiglia after somewhat more or less faking his death (lest there be more people out on his trail) the same way he had come to the country first - off the record. Once more, he made his way to the east, towards Asia, a place where Christianity was underdeveloped if anything, taking his time there as he learned some fine arts in ways of disguises from the women who made a living out of it. Occasionally, he was loosing count of the years, but luckily he had Timcampy to keep count for him.

Three years after Allen had made his way from Italy to Asia, he decided it was high time to move on once more, having mastered the art of face paint and the place no longer holding an attraction to him beyond it, and he took a ship from Shanghai to take him further to the east still, passing by Japan and off to America. America was not famed for its political stability or violence free diplomacy, yet the continent was huge, the people who tended to go missing and traveling through close to countless, if what he had heard from the other passengers was to be believed, and it suited Allen's needs well. Who would notice one more man passing though? Who would notice if he didn't? Who would miss him? Who would bother record the fact that there was one person less accounted for than the caravan was supposed to have? Or if the person who left one village looked different than the one who arrived in the next or was, in fact, a different person?

Cutting his hair, Allen used ink to color it a more easy overlooked kind of muddy brown rather than his eye-catching red, applied some fine lines under his eyes, on his forehead and around his mouth and he had gained a decade or two in the same amount of time it took other people to pull on their shoes. It was actually kind of ironic how his pretended age came closer to his true one, though he didn't dwell too much on that, lest he got lost in the craziness of his situation and forgot to act out the part of an Asian male, and definitely not someone of European descent.

Timcampy had hated him for a long time while he had traveled through easily-to-lose-people in America, from west to east, from north to south, learning a lot from the ancient natives about nature and particularly wizardry and plants (i.e. poisons) before he decided it might be a good idea to head back to the land mass where the main things happened. Particularly since the persistent feeling of someone looking for him had finally left him (for good hopefully – or they had just become so good that Allen no longer noticed them..._best stock up on things that he may use in such a situation_...).

Britain was the next place he set to kill some time in, the temptation that he wouldn't have to spent much paint to disguise himself on a daily basis too appealing to pass up. Red hair was not uncommon in the kingdom, and neither was tan skin or pale skin, and, in any case, as Allen noticed, the mentality of the people living in it was far too narrow and limited to take note off, never mind remember what happened outside of their own little lives. Consequently, he was understandably surprised when not only was he called out to, but also by name.

“Allen!”

Now, the name 'Allen' wasn't all that rare and just having it called out in an open plaza filled with people was not something he'd jump out of his skin for, usually, but when the person calling was not only waving at him but also running in his direction, dressed in a manner that stood out, using the name 'Allen' with which he had introduced himself not even once in this country and definitely not any more recently than half a life time ago, then that was _concerning_.

Something was scratching at his pant leg and if Allen had only been a little less disbelieving in his skill to actually succeed in fighting off whatever might come after him as opposed to sidestep the issue or talk his way out of it, then he would have swiped the dagger he had hidden up his sleeve into whatever it was that assaulted him. Luckily, he lacked the confidence and so he managed to put his actions on ice until his mind had caught up with reality.

There was a dog weaseling around his feet, standing on two legs in a bid for attention. The man who was calling his name was calling to the dog to leave the innocent bystander alone. The conclusion came to him lightning quick, sped up by his own experience with a dog named Allen. _And come to think of it...doesn't this one look funnily similar to...._

Allen looked away from the dog to the man it belonged to, seeing a white painted face with a wide mouth formed to be grinning regardless of the true expression below, though there was a smile in this case, colorful loose clown get up and a top hat. The clown pulled his dog away, scratching it under the chin before sweeping the top hat with a bow at Allen, either completely ignoring or oblivious to the audience that he had previously entertained and that was still following their entertainer with their eyes. “I hope my friend has not inconvenienced you, good sir.” He smiled a polite and well-meaning smile.

“Not at all,” Alllen returned, falling into the local accent by sheer habit as his mind was still catching up. “I was merely...startled.”

“So it happens! Say, does your name happen to be Allen too? You look like an Allen.” The stranger looked delighted. “My, what a coincidence. Strange things do happen in the world.”

Allen curled his lips into a smile, trying not be be obvious as his paranoia spiked. “Indeed. Your dog must be a miracle worker. Rare, such things, I find, given that most people see them more than tools than companions in a city like this.”

“He is my dearest friend, you see. Allen has always been with me.” The man just continued smiling. His eyes were clear of malice yet absent. He was mad.

“I see.” Allen crouched down and let the dog lick his face. “I've never had a dog, though an...acquaintance of mine used to have one. His name was Allen too, a joke at my expenses, no doubt.”

“Well! What do you know. Allen is so fortunate that there are so many of him,” the man declared, cheerfully. “Almost as many as these balls.” He was juggling star patterned rubber balls, grinning at Allen or maybe at Allen the Dog, whom he soon tossed one, got it head butted in return with a cheerful bark and continued juggling with an ever increasing number of them, attracting eyes, old audience and new and Allen's paranoia went haywire, yet as he was also tossed a ball and included in the performance without so much as a hair out of place, tossing balls and rings and knives to the one making a fool out of himself for the gaffing eyes, he had no choice but to let himself be drawn in. For running with so many eyes on him said nothing so much as that he had things to hide.

It was a beginning, certainly. One that Allen had not asked for. In the tumbling consequences of that meeting, Allen's input was never asked and never taken and even when he offered it, the mad clown did not always seem to listen or recall that something had been said.

Yet, the phenomena known as Mana Walker was not one that Allen was sure he could have avoided. Dancing through his life, barely away or time passing and possessing just enough reason to understand how the part of the world that kept him alive worked, Mana Walker, who had never introduced himself to Allen, was more than slightly cracked.

Allen should leave and leave the man alone, for the betterment and continued livelihood of the both of them, yet no matter how often he decided to pack his things and steal away in the night, his feet always stalled in the last steps. Allen should leave, wanted to leave for all the memories the man's existence dragged to the surface, yet for the same reasons Allen could not leave.

Mana was mad. A mad clown. Yet he had both. He understood and lived, he could speak and did. He tied intimately into Allen's own history and likely future as well. Allen _should_ leave. But he couldn't, not the first company in about thirty years, not someone who could bring life to the memories that had brought Allen to the point he was now.

Mana was mad, yes and seemed nonetheless to be under the impression that not only had they traveled together 'always', but also that Allen was his brother or dog in turn.

He should leave, yet the same question was always there: why should he?

Mana was mad, yes, but he was also alive and just Mana with Allen the dog.

...why should he?

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Allen should have left Mana to keep walking alone, with only Allen the dog, and let him forget the Allen who was not a dog existed by the next day. The reason: Cross Marian.

Who, unlike Mana was not only not mad but also very possibly a threat. Judging by the golden General's uniform a threat just below a Noah – or possibly equal, if the man decided to bring down the entire Order down on Allen's head. But then again, to do so, he'd need proof that Allen was someone worth persecuting in the first place, now would he? ...and since Allen did not have gray skin or golden eyes...

Well.

“Nice weather today isn't it?” Allen didn't have the patience for the other to finish staring or glaring at Allen to start speaking what had obviously brought him to seek Allen out after a perfectly nondescript performance in a traveling circus that had been lacking clowns until Mana and Allen had dropped by, especially since Allen had not volunteered for this chat. 

“Explain.”

“Hello, it is nice to see you too,” Allen droned out, letting his head fall back and looking at the gray clouds above. The weather on the British isles was always so depressing. “Manners, Marian, I'm sure you've heard of them.” He turned against the railing, leaning his arms on it. The circus was a place for strange people so no one looked twice but there still was a limit, always. “And don't call me that. My name is Allen Walker. If you get eyes on me that I don't want, I'm going to pour poison into your next drink.” Because that much at least he could give away. Even if he had nothing more to hide than his not changed appearance, which may or may not imply humanities dream of immortality, not wanting attention was perfectly reasonable.

“_Allen_ Walker.” The other red head repeated, a strange expression on his face before it vanished into that calculating sharpness again, and snapping, “cut the crap!”

“What do you want me to say,” Allen questioned mildly. “I don't see how I have to inform some _Exorcist General_ about my life and my life's choices. So I'm a traveling clown with some friend from old times – what of it?” His lips curled with derision. “If you mean about my appearance...again, I don't see how I owe you any answers. But for old times sake, lets trade, because I can see otherwise you'll not leave me alone.” He shot the other red head a look of cold consideration. “I'll answer one of your questions for every one of mine. Because you see, I too have questions. About what happened back then.” Leveling the other with an eve, calculating glance lacking any expression, he smiled. “If you can't accept those terms, then leave.”

Cross Marian had never taken well to anyone telling him what to do, and even back then, he had only done something when it to some extend served his own purposes, not one bit out of charity. “Hoh.” It seemed that part about him had not changed with life's experiences. “And what is to prevent me from getting my answers through other means?”

If anything, Allen's smile only widened. “What indeed,” he murmured. “Would you care to find out?” Allen had years on the man, but in this situation, he found himself doubting who it was that was more calculating. What was it that Marian had spend his years with while Allen had traveled the world? Had Allen wasted his time while Marian had done whatever he had done?

...but then again, it wasn't like there was much meaning for Allen to invest time or effort or feelings in anything that he could be taken from him at a moments notice. Or something; it wasn't like he actually knew what a Noah's awakening was like.

“Perhaps I might,” Cross Marian voiced, contemplatively, eying him. Then, “Why are you hanging around Mana?”

As far as questions went, that was a difficult one to answer, yet Allen had the unhappy feeling that as far as this conversation went, it was going to be one of the easier ones. “Why not?” Allen returned, but then added to it because if this deal was going to work without violence, he could not be doing his usual thing of sidestepping, ignoring or lying. He ticked his fingers against the metal railing, the separation between circus folk and the rest, the sound almost intrusively loud. “...in truth, I'm not really sure. I mean, I should leave, for the livelihood of us both, but he's the first person in thirty years who knows...I guess you can blame it on nostalgia and sentimentalism.” He shrugged. Mana was a like a breath of fresh air from the mad world, like a safe harbor, colorful and living in a world of grayness. There was that, and no matter how much Allen would like to blame the past for it, there was also the present, in which there was no reason whatsoever to abandon Mana to the cruel world alone. Companionship, maybe. He slid his eyes to Marian. “What happened thirty years ago?”

Once more something flickered over the red head's expression, faster than it could be read by most people. However Allen was not most people and knew when someone was startled, before it all was taken in by the sharpness that was so well hidden by Marian's usual demeanor. “That's an expensive one. Answer me this first: why do_ you_ even have to ask?”

_Why?_ The thought that it was unusual hadn't occurred to him. In all the times he had questioned 'why' something or other, it had never been why_ he_ did not know it. Of course, from anyone else, that would likely be the most obvious question to ask...the fact that Marian had before even questioning Allen on that matter asked after Mana said some interesting things...about as interesting as the fact that they, two random strangers for all intents and purposes, had met at all in a circus of all places where Mana was as well....He snorted. “I was made aware that I had lost my qualifications in a very forceful manner, so...I'm just Allen Walker now.”

The younger man puffed a breath of smoke into the air, seemingly lost to thought. “I don't know all that much. Only heard of stuff after. One day they were all alive and plotting world destruction and the next not even half of them and the day after no one left – but that's stuff you should know, were closer and all that shit.”

Allen made a thoughtful noise. “About that far, I know too. They were in...a panic, I guess, if that would count for one. As far as I know, none of them had any idea why they were dropping dead left and right.” He shot a look at the other. “You know more, don't try to deny it. I see you fit the things I give into a bigger picture.”

Marian shoot him a glare of disdain. _Oh, he p_racticed_ that one_. “There was a traitor in the family.”

Thin air was suddenly like water. “I see.”

It wasn't as though Allen had never entertained the possibility, given the fact that Innocence had hardly seemed to be capable of doing damage to even one of them, so unless it had been.... but to have it confirmed...”...but who?” For the first time, he tried to actively think back and take the memories into analytical perspective, the emotions he had allowed to seep into them getting pushed away for the sake of clarity. This was important. This was the most important thing in thirty years. What this meant...it would tell him his future.

A traitor. Killed by his own family. No bloody wonder Neah took so bloody long to wake. Things like that could scatter the minds of _strangers._ Never mind the sanity of the victims who were killed. Who never were entirely sane in the first place. 

A sudden thought occurred to him. “And the world is still standing?” A very, very valid question altogether. Noah were not known to be a) kind b) merciful c) forgiving d) reasonable or e) the most patient. They were also known for a) their long memories b) their unity c) their drive for revenge and d) their Earl.

Even Neah had been infected by his very own personal brand of madness. But he would never have....Allen thought back, about the kind of person Neah had been, the kind of charisma he carried and decisiveness, viciousness, ignoring how much the memories hurt and came to the conclusion that...he would have. Given the right motivation, Neah _most definitively would have_. That kind of determination, in fact, he remembered, was one of those things that had drawn Allen in like a moth to a flame. It would have been suicide, however ….Neah would not have been stopped by something like that....

In fact...

Allen refrained from cursing with much effort.

Wait...

... it hadn't been Neah. Allen was convinced. It just didn't feel right. When he had found Neah like that, dying, so painfully obviously dying, it had not been as someone who had...

It felt fundamentally wrong, like it was impossible, even though Allen_ knew_ it was possible, the contradiction so loud in his head that he wondered if it was Neah's ghost whispering into his ear.

“It wasn't him,” Allen stated, more to himself and in straight out disbelief, trying to process all the new knowledge. Neah would have. But he had not yet decided if he would have to.

But this....suddenly, it had become much more important, because not only was Allen host to a random Noah's Memory who just happened to be his friend, no, the stakes in this game had just multiplied hundred fold, with the odds against him, with the stakes packed higher than it could be counted in invaluable lives. Suddenly, it seemed like time was running out, like there was so much to do, so much to prepare by Allen for the time when Neah woke up. At the same time, the people potentially after him if they knew he existed had suddenly multiplied in both number and motive.

First things first. Marian. What was his role in all this? His aims, his loyalties, how did Mana play into it all...

“But that thought isn't new to you,” Allen concluded, standing straight as he looked at Marian, who had been watching him with attentive eyes and was seemingly only reluctant in dragging his attention from Allen's reaction to his words. “You must have considered it or thought that he had tried and fucked up somewhere along the line. Tell me, Cross Marian, what part do you play in this game that you do know, that you carry an Exorcist’s coat and watch over _Mana_? _What is going on_?”

The man did not seem inclined to answer, just watching Allen again and no doubt taking his part of information from Allen’s reactions. This had never been the kind of simplicity that could be afforded to trade with under the guise of a game, as though the danger only lay in the things that were past and buried but still dangerous as opposed to only being the prelude and hiding a strand of silk that would become a web that may put everything on fire. As though there weren't things_ hidden _that could be _discovered_. “What do you want? No wait, let me guess.”

Sharply turning away, he started pacing but was careful not to leave the vail provided by Maria, something which he was increasingly grateful for as the matters discussed weren't any that could be allowed to be overheard by the million-to-one-odds of a random pickpocket choosing either of them for a mark. “I'm guessing you didn’t know what to do. You thought ‘convenient, they’re all dead’. You must have thought that it couldn’t be so easy to end the war. No, the Clan’s decimation was just the beginning. You’re shrewd enough to recognize that much. But then you didn’t know what to do. The war wouldn’t end. Not even with the Noah all but disappearing. So then _how _could the war ever be brought to an end? You didn’t know. But you knew someone who might. Someone from the other side. Except Mana is in this state. You will have thought to yourself 'hey, I don't know if he's ever going to be reincarnated or not, but if he is, my best bet is watching Mana for finding him'.” And, jackpot, here Allen was. But Marian didn’t know that. “And then you could go back to where you were thirty years ago, negotiating and thinking about alternatives. So that's what you did. Except it was not Neah who turned up, but me, curiously. So.”

He shoot a look over at the other red head, studying the half mask and the half of his face that was visible, the red eye behind the glasses, the relaxed and utterly superior body language that seemed to imply he thought the world of himself and of everything else about as much as what lay under his feet, the golden General's attire. He read it all as he kicked the gears in his head awake from a thirty years of rest -running and fleeing and fitting in had after all only required an able body and some average wits to survive and not a head capable to twist around every obstacle and the insight to read conspiracies as well as the motives of them off the face of a passing average human.

“Further, you will have thought: 'I've got nothing better to do, how about helping the Order and using them as my pawn, shield, sponsor alternatively, while at the same time maneuvering myself in top position in case something were to happe, and being one enemy down at the same time'.” There was defiance in Allen's voice, almost an angry edge though there was nothing for him to be angry about. Maybe he was just hurt and weary, run down until there was nothing left but rough edges. He was spot on, he knew, with all his assumptions though for the life of him he couldn’t say how he knew.

_“Don't stop. Keep walking.”_ The sadist.

The pain of loss had been numbed, shoved aside and suppressed immediately after it happened, what with Allen being focused on surviving and making plans for continued survival and not to out pace anyone who might be on his trail or potentially after him. Allen had kept himself busy. He had not allowed himself to feel the loss – after everything that had happened, giving up everything he knew as life and his future and all the things he had in it, giving up everything he knew, if he had dwelled on the shock of seeing Neah’s being-gone, on what he had done, on hearing last words whispered into his ear (_breath warm, skin hot, then cooling in the rain with dead eyes) _– he would have gone mad. Cracked. Like a shattered mirror.

Allen hadn't grieved. Perhaps that was why instead of time growing scar tissue over his wounds, Allen felt the loss of Neah more potent with time. Then again, there was a chance it hurt so much because Allen's life had been spinning around Neah for the last thirty years and missing the one his life turned around was only natural. All the while he was aware of what he carried inside him, he missed Neah. Paradoxically, in that precise way he _had_ grieved. Like Mana and gone mad from it.

Wounds that would not heal because it was not truly over with and as such had never been allowed to truly heal.

He had grieved for a long time, but it had not gotten to him as much as in the last couple years...

_“Don't stop. Keep walking.”_

_“What about...Allen?”_

Pressing the palms of his hands to his eyes, Allen choked down on the hysterical laughter bubbling in his throat and the urge to burst into equally hysteric tears. Damn him. Just _damn_ him. “Fine. Just fine!”

He tore his hands down to his sides, balling them into fists as he faced entirely-apathetic-and-slightly-bored-by-Allen's-mental-breakdown Marian. “What the hell do you want before we can go our separate ways? I need to keep walking, not stopping. Not for you and not even for Mana, got it? Walking.”

Marian twirled his cigarette between his fingers. “Why haven't you aged. That isn't your ability.”

Allen made an impatient gesture. “Anything besides that.”

Full of irritation, Marian shot him a glare, followed by a pointed eyeroll and a scoff before once more moving on with the issues at hand. “Why do you have Tim?”

From one difficult question to another. His fingers twitched reflexively. “Because he was left to me,” Allen said shortly, tightly. “I was there when he died” -and ah, there was an expected flash of eyes. Elaboration was needed, obviously. “I went looking when he disappeared. Like everyone else who noticed. Found him more by coincidence than anything.”

“He say anything?”

“Nothing that would be of interest to you.”

“And you would know what is of interest to me how?”

“Because it was last words not some code, you dolt,” Allen snapped. “Not anything of great revelation. You knew him too. What do you think his last words would be?” Forcefully, he breathed out and made a split second decision. “If you really want to know, ask him yourself. He's going to come back, that much is for sure.”

If there was anything to grab the younger man's attention, it was that. “Hoh.”

“Yes well, it's him we are talking about it now, aren't we,” he snarked. “If you hadn't believed that, you wouldn't have bothered with watching Mana, so don't pretend.”

At the very least, Marian did not bother to insult Allen's intelligence with some misdirecting comment or other, just sticking to his silence and in other words letting Allen read his answers into it. He had grown up to be quite shrewd, really. Allen was almost tempted to smile except for the part where there was nothing to smile about. “Leave the golem with me.”

Allen felt a frown work its way up his face. “Tim records everything. If you think he's just going to spit my last thirty years out for you, those smokes must have addled your brain.”

Marian scoffed derisively. “He's a noticeable one of a kind golem, that's all.”

Which had its uses, of course, beyond which Timcampy was useful all on his own.

The question now was what kind of uses Marian wanted him for and further, if there might be negative consequences from it… and Allen needed Tim sooner or later. “Very well. Though he is watching Mana at the moment.”

The tip of Marian's cigarette glowed, a dot of color that seemed the only bright spot within sight, even taking both of their hair colors into account before he flicked it out against the metal railing and tossed the stump down into the river.

When after long moments of silence, nothing was said anymore, Allen figured that Marian had concluded the futility of their exchange. It was only logical after all as they were both practiced liars and didn't trust each other beyond the very real possibility that one misstep could land them with a dagger in their back. Without trust, there was no guarantee that a ‘normal’ conversation of the likes that they would engage in was not intermixed with lies when it wasn't completely mad up of them in the first place.

Though Allen had only vague ideas what game Marian played, what his objectives were, there was very little doubt that it was with high stakes.

For the few things that he had gotten answers from...were they the truth? The truth objectively and not the kind of truth that would suit Marian's purpose...?

“He didn't do it,” Allen said, not particularly directed at anyone even though there was only one person within earshot as said person issued a deactivating command to the corpse he knew to manipulate. He moved his feet, setting one in front of the other and started walking as the protection disappeared. “He didn't do it.” Not yet. Might never have. Above all else Neah loved Mana.

Which begged the question: who did?

Don't stop. Keep walking.

Allen had been flowing with the stream for too long. It was time to learn to walk on his own.

In which direction did he want to go, and in which was he needed to go, in which was he wanted to go?

For thirty years now he had lived past the day he had offered the use of his arms and legs and voice and life to someone else, just because – how having something to accomplish before the end changed someone's outlook on the time available, no matter if it was borrowed, was quite unexpected.

_Lets return to Mana._


	4. and the grime of day

“Tim,” Allen greeted little golem softly as the little orb lifted from his perch on Allen the Dog, settling down on two of his fingers as he bumped into his face in greeting. “Abarata. Ura.” Began Allen, starting with the usual magic before branching off into commands he had programmed in over time with little known magic from the far west (weaker but more convoluted and different), sealing the memory banks shut through a wildly unconventional and unknown key on top of the usual tight holding locks. Even Marian wouldn't get past them, maybe not even the Earl for a time – if the man bothered with something like interrogating a golem anyway.

Having crossed out the issue of having information leaked, he sighed. His fingers trailed over his companion of many years' body, stroking all the way to the tiny feathered wings. Timcampy's wide mouth split. Once more Allen sighed, reluctant. “Marian is around. He wants you to go with him.”

Timcampy showed his teeth.

Allen smiled, then tossed the little orb into the air. “Go on, you. You'll know when to come find me.”

Only after circling for a good minute over Allen's head and digging his teeth into Allen's head for good measure did the golem flutter out of their temporary abode.

Allen the Dog followed his playmate with his eyes, ears twitching. He barked once, then when Tim didn't return he got to his old feet and ran out the slit between two tent flaps, barking louder and with more intent. Timacampy would not be found and, on the off chance that he was, would not allow himself be captured and dragged back by a dog. Unexpectedly, it made Allen's heat a bit heavier than it already was.

Allen the Dog would not forget Tim existed the way Mana would. He was an old dog. Tim was his only playmate and nonhuman companion. It'd be nice, he thought, if Allen could forget. Animals had a semblance of feelings and dogs knew camaraderie and loyalty very well. Allen wished he could explain to Allen the Dog that Timcampy was not...except did it make a difference to animals if a pack member of them had just left or if they were dead? In the end, in both ways they were gone, so...probably not.

That was incredibly sad.

Allen stopped staring at the spot Allen the Dog had vanished and would reappear in with a hanging head, dropped ears and sad eyes, and looked around for hints of where Mana could have disappeared to this time.

Neah's brother was mad. He had lost it. Was broken into pieces.

Allen missed Neah too, and he feared he had contracted a very personal brand of madness himself, yet watching Mana....

Mana was as harmful as a bundle of wool (...), yet watching him, Allen sometimes felt cold fear crawling up his spine. Yet Mana was innocent and broken, as careless and restless as someone who had nothing left to lose, as easily smiling happily and sincerely as a child it was painful to watch – watching Mana's grief and what it had done to him and the grief Mana had forgotten he was feeling.

It was like the saying; Misery sought company. In the time he had spent with Mana, Allen had been reminded of all that the had lost, had it had dragged to the surface again and again, had gotten heartbreak and tragedy thrown into his face every time he laid eyes on Mana (the man he had been on the one side, the man he was on the other).

Before he reached his breaking point, Allen knew he should leave...truly, there were hardly any reasons to stay and none that could outweigh the suicide that it was to stay, but. But. Yet. Allen just couldn't. It felt like betrayal, like abandonment, yet he was aware that even the most noble arguments were nothing more than excuses.

Fear of Mana, fear for Mana...it made him wonder if it wasn't all the same.

Tiredly, he tugged a strand of long red hair over his shoulder. It needed cutting again soon. Maybe he should ask Mana to do it for him. Once he found the oh-so-lost man-child.

Surveying the little circus provided tent that was their home so long as their stayed with one more glance, Allen stepped out, letting his eyes drift over the camp, before deciding to try his luck over with the animals first.

The tigers and lions' eyes followed him as he walked between their cages, looking for any trace of a mad clown between them. The monkeys chirped and chatted at him, their arms reaching through the bars. Once, just once Allen had been foolish enough to try and take one of those hands, just out of curiosity. He'd had the bruises for month even though the monkey in question had not actually meant to harm him. Since then, he was careful not to let the rim of his clothes come within reach of those fingers.

Frank, the one in charge of taking care of the animals was feeding the zebras when Allen came by, but Allen knew better than to ask if Mana had passed by. The circus was all smiles and joy on the outside, yet behind the scenes, not a kind thought was given without payment. It reflected the world in its rottenness, and just like through the world, Mana wandered through it not obliviously, but without regard – for himself or anyone else. Like driftwood.

Then again, Allen supposed that all of society was like that. Human nature was dirty, rotten and corrupt, except for a precious few exceptions.

Allen stopped.

A civilian was walking through the camp. Someone who did not have the lost demeanor of a person having wandered into the collection of different sized tents on accident.

In other words, a suspicious person at worst, a trick of paranoia at best. His eyes narrowed and a hand slipped to the daggers, throwing needles and others he had hidden beneath his baggy clown's dress.

Stepping onto the main path through the camp, Allen glanced into the direction the woman had come from, noting the absence of anyone else and concluding that it fell to him to deal with this.

His head turned around and he tugged one of his special knives into his palm, but still hidden, eyes watching the one disappearing into the flaps of a tent and watching the very same reappear a couple of moments later.

Spine straightening, Allen paced his steps, staying within the shadows of the towering tents, unseen until he was a mere couple steps behind a flaring dress.

“Stop.”

The woman stopped. In front of her, at the end of the path, the figure of Mana crouched on the ground, back turned, unseeing and unknowing. The blood in Allen's veins turned to ice.

“Leave. _Now._”

The barrel of a gun pointed in Allen's face and he tore his head to the side just in time for a bullet to rush by. The wind tore his hair out of its knot, leaving it to fall past is cheeks in blood red waves. A second shot never came.

His cheek stung and a warm trail tickled down on his winter cooled face, feeling almost like acid burning down his skin. A now free hand brushed over it, reddish black liquid tainting his white glove.

Silver gray eyes turned from it to the one who had shot the silent bullet, observing impassively as the round, gun decorated manifestation of tragedy hovered in the air, apparently perplexed by the development and, as Level Ones were prone to be, unable to deal with a situation that developed other than senseless killing. Though unable to destroy Akuma, magic was a powerful tool that when sufficiently studied had an answer to nearly every scenario – so long as one side was not powerful enough to render all walls null, that was.

“Not dead.” The face of the woman on the round body was twisted in eternal anguish as her lips moved and spoke without emotion. “Not dead. Can't move. Why can't I move...”

For a never tested spell, the dagger worked well in tying that which it was aimed at down. Good to know. Hopefully it would fulfill its secondary function just as well.

“Not dead. Not dead. Don't sense Innocence. Why not dead.”

The smile that graced Allen's lips felt alien in its tranquil coldness yet familiar the very same. “Had I not stopped you from harming that man, pitiful Akuma, your master would have torn you apart piece by piece,” he stated pleasantly. “Leave, before I destroy you.”

The Akuma spun back into human shape, a woman with large eyes unblinking, staring at him. “I kill. I must kill. I'll kill you.”

He reached through the barrier, putting the palm of his hand to the creature's face, trailing his hand down to her throat, applying just the slightest bit pressure there. He was not feeling like smiling anymore.

The akuma's stilled, its eyes widening.

“Listen,” he spoke softly, leaning in to her ear. “And listen well. I care nothing if you kill the people here, but stay away from the one behind you. The Maker is not forgiving. Just a tiny, insignificant akuma; what does he care for your excuses when you have dared upset him?” Feet carrying him past the living machine, Allen bent down, his engraved dagger at his feet. “Don't let yourself be seen. Once you are done, destroy yourself.” he finished softly.

Yanking the knife out of the frozen ground, Allen stood up, ignored the one behind him and walked to the end of the tent row, observing what had caught Mana's attention this time.

A tiny flower, a single stem with two leaves, was breaching the cold ground. It seemed to have made a mistake in the seasons for not only did it have green leaves, it was opening its buds to bloom.

It had been trampled, most likely when the circus had arrived and set up camp, its stem broken in half. The bud was already wilted, brown and decaying around the edges.

Mana was talking to it, wetting his fingers and running them up and down the fragile plant as though it would help it heal, trying to stick the broken parts back together into something whole and was talking to it.

Allen crouched down next to him, letting the frozen ground seep coldness into his flesh and from there into his bones. Breath was fogging the air. As Allen watched, the flower fell apart further under Mana's well meaning but rough hands, one premature petal after the next. The leaves torn. The stem twisted, crushed and torn as well. Broken.

“Say Mana,” Allen spoke, his arms around his legs and his chin on his knees. “Do you still remember Marian?”

Mana smiled at him, cheeks fallen but stretched under the force of his brightness. “Marian? Have you made a new friend, Allen? Why, introduce me. I'm sure we can all get along well.”

“Yeah,” Allen said quietly.

Mana rubbed warmth into his hands. “If he is your friend, you'll see him again, so don't stop. Keep walking.” A hand reached over to pat Allen's cheek. Mana's fingers dug in and pulled his face into a painful grimace. “Smile! Clowns smile and people smile and life smiles! Don't be sad.”

_Marian isn't my friend. He might have been once, I don't know. But he is dangerous now. Might be a danger to Neah. I don't even like him._

_...he's probably one of those few people who won't be washed away..._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

Allen shuffled a deck of cards in his hands, flicking them away and out, exchanging the cards in his hands at will. Card tricks, magic tricks, easy things to entertain with, however for the large audience of a circus not productive as both the cards and what was displayed on them was far too small for any of said audience to enjoy. It was a good thing, then, Allen privately mused, that Mana had once more decided to move on and that a large audience was not their concern for the time being.

Small audiences on a street as opposed to large audiences in stuffy tents had the advantage of being watched or alternatively being gaped at from only a short distance, as such not only within easy sight but also easy reach, allowing Allen to incorporate any one of the observing people, a child at the moment. His painted face stretched into a smile when the little girl hesitantly pulled a card, further widening at the soft awful breath when it was the very same card as predicted.

Allen found little things to be enjoyable – or rather, he was rarely relaxed enough to concern himself about such things – however it never ceased to be a point of, perhaps not joy, but certainly marvel when, be it adults of the highest order or children not yet with their full set of teeth, when outwitting -tricking, pulling one over, playing for a fool, or any variant there of brought smiles and laughter, appreciations and compliments, coins into an upturned hat from those very same conned people.

When he was tricked he was not happy about it to say the least and immediately set to do his best so that it would not happen again. That extended from playing with cards to the wide broad that was the world and happenings inside it. Certainly, he was no manipulator himself, but he recognized the signs well enough to avoid them and thus, be it as it may, Allen had in turn learned to take advantage thereof.

Currently he did so by being perfectly harmless and alluding to the most obvious conclusion to the eyes watching suspiciously that he most certainly could never be an individual who dared cheating in a game of high stakes against the local crime boss and making off with his monetary winnings thereafter despite protests.

A case of mistaken identity obviously, for what would a man stabbing someone's hands to a door frame want with making little children smile, particularly homeless and conectionless little children?

Certainly, he was no manipulator, however misdirection and remaining invisible in plain sight still came to him as easy as breathing, even if it was the only thing that had at this point managed to remain from his former life.

When at the end of Mana’s and his little performance he swiped his face off the paint to reveal features that had nothing in common with the man of last night, then that was only another indicator of previous obvious conclusion, especially as moving on from street performers to being hired by the director of yet another circus in town was greeted with great enthusiasm that so very easily could be mistaken for displays of relief.

Allen the Dog licked the poor little child's – a girl under the rags and the grime and the youth, who had remained watching them from a distance even after they were finished- hand much to her shock, let himself be petted by her in turn until Mana called for Allen -one of them, both of them- that they would keep walking.

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The new circus was not one of the better ones Mana had let them to. It was shabby and run down, the people colored in cynical and greedy shapes colors. However it was also not the worst – that title went to the one where the akuma had...gotten lost in and that was no longer part of the world.

After all, it was not the people, temporary coworkers or whatever one may call them, Allen had problems with. He didn't have issues with people in general so much as he had disdain and pity for them – the issues with troubles was reserved for a small minority of people, clothes with a certain insignia on them at the very top of it, people with changeable skin color just below and people who were not really people at all as number three of three (though until they had been revealed to not be a threat to his life so much as to his livelihood they had been significantly more dangerous) tying with normal humans who were associated either by choice or by circumstances with the first two. The local mafia boss who was no doubt grieving for a loss he could very well afford was not in any way or form included in such ranking.

All in all, life in the current circus was no worse or better than what Allen was used to and Mana, swinging between cheerful and tragic as he always did, did not seem to care for the circumstances existing beyond that which affected him any more than usual. For Allen, more often than not, that was enough. So long as Mana kept walking...so long as he was alive...

...Allen didn't want to see more things he cared about break. Tragedy was the sin of the world – it did nothing but destroy. From tragedy's destruction, there was nothing born. Left in the wake of tragedy was nothing but a barren land where nothing would grown, no thing still alive and no wind breathed. Tragedy, tragedy.

Pain and suffering. Allen didn't want to experience any more of it, didn't want to bear witness of it happening to someone he cared about.

However like any calamity, tragedy always struck unexpected.

The circus already had a clown. The clown was a tragic one, for what was more tragic than being unable to fulfill ones purpose?

Cosimo the clown was in Allen's opinion in the wrong profession, however like all humans, was unable to recognize his own faults – or act on a recognition thereof in a way that led to betterment.

Act, Cosimo could, and it was one thing he would pay for dearly, Allen decided, eyes trailing over the bruises of Allen the Dog. The body of Allen the Dog, Allen corrected mentally, his eyes narrowing with every spot they trailed over.

Allen the Dog was dead. Dogs were nice. They were simple and straightforward, were loyal and would not betray and would act to protect those they were loyal to. Unlike humans in every way. Allen had liked Allen the Dog. Allen the Dog had been even more dear to Mana, who had cared for the now deceased animal either for thirty years or thereabout or was unable to recognize it was a second dog. Allen didn't know which it was, a positive indicator of his sanity, and he decided it didn't matter. What mattered was if Mana recognized Allen the Dog as who he was or if not when he laid eyes on yet another valued thing that was dead.

For once, Allen hoped Mana would forget and only know Allen the human to have been his companion for who knew how many years.

In the meantime, Allen went to seek out the one responsible. Dark thoughts burned in his mind like lava and glacial cold, consuming all and lighting a path of ash. 

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Allen returned to Mana, finding him with scrapped hands, a tiny pile of a grave with a rubber ball on top and the little girl from before crying next to Allen's grave.

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	5. below the earth

The little girl's name was Judith, or at least she called herself that. No last name because she had been too young to care about such things when her mother had died and left her an orphan. An orphanage had taken her in, but upon discovering her malformed left arm had been quick to, if not throw her out, make it clear that her welcome was only on the surface at best and definitely worn out soon thereafter.

The church, the morons, had not recognized her arm for what it was (if inactive and useless) and Allen had wanted to leave the girl behind fist chance he got, however Mana had taken a shine to her, fussing over her instead of Allen the Dog.

A girl with parasitic Innocence, a host of Noah Memory, and Mana.

Allen got a headache just thinking about it (what, oh what if they came to the attention of the Order?) and consequently indulged his paranoia in mapping out a dozen more backups.

Thereby he remembered Marian. Marian the Exorcist General with, if not as damaging, troublesome enough Noah connections...

...who would consequently shut his mouth and keep it that way about where he would have found the girl.

Finding the man turned out to be just as difficult as he had expected though and before Allen had found a proper trail, Judith, who was called Allen as well by Mana (...), painted symbols in the snow.

After Allen had confirmed that yes, she knew them and no, it was not Mana who taught them to her, he pressed his fingers to his temple, trying to suppress the upcoming migraine. He distantly thought that there was a disgusting kind of sense in a girl who was or would become a Noah coincidentally meeting a mad clown, and someone who was in the same boat as her, minus the Innocence (Impossible, with a parasite even more so, so how had _that_ happened?).

Allen could call it as many names as he wanted – Dark Matter resonance, fate, subconscious recognition- fact was however that a coincidental meeting was no longer as coincidental as it seemed. After all, Allen noted the influence Neah's memories had on him in his everyday life even though said memories were still inactive. _Allen_ was not the one who could read the lyrics of the Musician’s lullaby and _hear the music belonging to it_. _Allen_ was also not someone who could order akuma around.

With that in mind, he had tried to deduce which Noah was slumbering inside little Judith (_Allen_ the Girl), but he did not get far, given that he lacked any knowledge on who already had awoken, who had died three decades ago in the first place and who just went mad and if gender was determined with every reincarnation anew or if not.

Unable to do even that much, Allen was basically stuck with the situation since he now had to potentially guard Mana from a) a freshly awakened Noah's potential confused or panicked rampage or b) a murderous Noah.

Allen just hoped more unawakened Noah would not start flocking to the concentration of two now. 

What he could do however was to determine how to deal with her.

Then there was the issue of the Innocence.

_What to do, what to do_. Braiding the girl's dark hair for her first performance (excitement and nervousness included even in the preparations), Allen let many thoughts of greater and smaller importance drift through his head. 

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“Allen?”

“Yes?” Allen didn't look away from where he was kneading flour and water into bread.

The girl stood at his elbow, watching and learning. “Why does Mana call me Allen?”

Allen paused. “It's a bit difficult to explain. Add some salt.”

She did, dispersing the small crystals like snow over Allen's hands. “Why?”

For once, they had earned enough money (Allen’s founds notwithstanding) to spend it on a roof over their heads and on some nourishment. Bread wouldn't go bad that quickly and was easy enough to prepare so long as one had a place to bake it. Allen had paid the inn's kitchen for use of their oven. “Mana is sick.”

Little Allen gasped. Her little hands went to clutch his elbow. “We need to call a doctor!”

Allen shook his head. “It's not that simple. There are lots of things that make people sick. Like bad food. Or getting sick from some other person. Those things can be treated by a doctor” Allen put one lump of dough aside and went to mixing more water and flour. “Mana isn't sick like that. He is sick on the inside, that's why he forgot Allen the Dog and that Allen isn't your name.”

Her eyes were wide. “What can we do? Mana has to get better.”

“Doctors would bring Mana to a church. You know how useless those are.” Very well did she know, given that she had run away from one. “Besides, Mana is happier like this and he is fine. He just calls everyone he likes Allen. That’s not too bad. Does it bother you?”

Quickly little Allen shook her head in denial, but she was biting her lip, which was quivering when she stopped.

Allen sighed. “What is it?”

She flinched, as though expecting to get hit. It took her some time to find the words while Allen was patient as much as indifferent. “I like being Allen. Allen makes me happy – being Allen is different. But how can I be Allen if you're already Allen?” Her eyes went huge. “We can’t both be Allen.”

Names. Children. How very bothersome. “Add some salt. I'm Allen. Just like Allen the Dog was Allen. If you want to be Allen, then you can be an Allen.”

“But I'm not you.”

“And I'm not you. Just the same name doesn't make us the same person.”

She chewed on her lip. “But...”

Allen let out a long breath. “Let me ask you something. What was bad about Judith? It’s your name, isn’t it?”

Once more, the girl flinched. “...I just overheard it and...liked the way it sounded...but it’s not....” She looked at her hands, near dead eyed, near vicious little street kid.

Allen worked through the meanings hidden in that that the girl probably didn't know the significance of. “If you want to be Allen because Mana named you Allen, then be Allen.” He smiled at her. He didn’t truly feel it. After all, it had been years, and years and decades and ‘Allen’ was all that he had during that time. ‘Allen’ was _his._ This girl had no right to the last thing he had left of himself.

There was no way he could tell her that. No way he could make Mana stop calling her Allen. “I'm Allen because I was named Allen too. By Mana’s brother even.” More irony.

Little Allen's eyes rounded again, childish and curious, the shadows of fear still lurking in her eyes – afraid to take, to accept. (Like Allen didn’t know what that felt like.) “Mana’s brother?” She breathed. “But aren’t you…?”

The stab of pain was expected and really, what had Allen been thinking, telling her this? He made a noise in the back of his throat. “He was very different from Mana. Not at all polite and very self-centered. Not without empathy, not unless he was pissed off, but cold-hearted as a product of his very narrow focus and he was ruthless when he wanted.”

Street-child that she was, she was at eight already cynical enough to understand that there were many, many things that Allen didn’t say and sharp enough not to question him. Instead she smiled, shy and soft and understanding – or at least that was what she was aiming for, no doubt. But the expression didn’t fit her face like it fit Mana’s. Not that Allen would ever speak to Mana about Neah, not when Mana was doing so well.

She also knew better than to offer platitudes for the very much implied fact that said brother was gone.

In the end, he had managed to reassure that it was fine to answer to the name Mana called her. His own feelings on the matter he had to put aside for Mana’s sake, but he hoped this wasn’t going to come back to bite him later, though if it did, it would be nothing more than the consequences of his own actions. Indeed, one could say he had it coming….

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Unbelievable. Allen had let Little Allen out of his sight for less then an hour and in that time, tragedy struck. And irony. Truly, the irony was so heavy, it was sickening.

Still, he should have watched her better, should have known better. Should have expected that the Earl would appear to someone grieving for Mana. He had expected it, How could he not, but it hadn't been enough.

If there was one positive aspect to this mess, it was that Allen had not encountered the Earl himself. That would have been such a bloody mess....

Rather unimpressed, he stared down at the hunched and broken body of a little girl lying against the back of the inn they had been staying at. Her face was scrunched by crying, lifeless as it had been since Mana died, and most pointedly, the left half was all but split in half. The dark matter all but reeked off it.

A curse.

Just bloody wonderful.

Speaking of horribly wonderful things, that Innocence in her left arm looked suspiciously like it had activated. In fact Allen was entirely sure it had.

One Noah-to-be with an activated Innocence.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Allen sighed deeply, wondering why he hadn't turned on the spot the first time he shared breathing space with Neah.

“Come on, Little Allen. It's over.” One hand under her legs, the other supporting her head, Allen picked the little girl up, being careful not to upset her injuries. She was likely too deep in shock to feel anything, nevermind that she latched onto his clothes with bruising hardness. There was no need for Allen to make his own work harder by risking an infection on wounds that may by some miracle not be infected yet so he was careful.

The inn was of the shady kind, but not so shady that a grown man carrying a bleeding young girl wouldn't call attention, so Allen had to press the little one's head against his shirt to hide the most obvious as he nudged the door open with a foot. The war air and noise from the inside blasted in his face, melting the stiffness of cold away, but Little Allen didn't even stir, unmoving like an icicle. And come to think of it, she was too cold...permeneuia on top of everything else...

He put her down on the bed of the room they had rented while Mana had been seen to by a doctor, stroked her dark hair away from the face and for the first time took a closer look at what would later become Little Allen's signature scar. It was a bloody mess, but already it was obvious the wound did not have the form of the slash that had caused it_._ Like he said, Dark Matter fairly oozed from it. Allen supposed that he would not have to worry about the infection there, given that nothing could stand Dark Matter, certainly nothing as small as bacterias.

Little Allen's eyes were still widened hours later, round with horror and she didn't blink, didn't cry, didn't follow the motion in her sight and didn't even seem to be there at all. Wonderful. Luckily, Allen knew a thing or two about treating shock and or trauma even if he hadn't had applied said know-how on himself. So he started talking, speaking about nonsense things, what the weather was like, how Allen expected it to be tomorrow, the barmaids' latest juicy gossip, the reason why the man down in the pup was drowning himself in a mug, what his inquiries at the station produced, what became of the dress she had so admired in that one shop, and that he acquired had some money to spent on sweets the next time they saw a shop, and so forth. Once he ran out of things to talk about, he started reading a book to her.

Little Allen didn't stir at all, just staring blankly at the ceiling, not even when he stripped her of the ruined clothes, washed the dirt off her and dressed her in new, warm rags.

The whole time he was dastardly careful to not touch her left after the first time he had brushed it, it had snapped seemingly out of its own accord after his arm and his skin still prickled with a whole new kind of_ unpleasantness_ from the split second contact.

It symbolized what Noah and Innocence were supposed to be like. Mutual antagonism was normal. One attached to the other was not and the significance of it by no means escaped Allen's notice.

Of all the things he could tell her to regain life, he did not claim that everything would be alright, that it would be fine. Because who would ever believe such a lie?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With this, I think it's getting clearer what I mean by role-reversal.


	6. there breaks the ice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thought I had posted this already months ago, sorry about that.

Allen sipped earl grey tea, the cutlery clicking when he set it down. The cafe he had chosen was in one of the cleaner parts of London, small and situated by a busy street. All tables around him were filled with customers, fine ladies meeting to exchange gossip, well off travelers relaxing between the end of one journey and the beginning of another, young children being treated by their mothers, so it was not at all strange when one more traveler joined Allen at his table.

Said person was male, red haired, wore glasses and was usually not found in a place not selling alcohol. Allen supposed he was expected to be surprised, but then again, he had seen Timcampy.

“So.” Allen offered, once more sipping tea. He was dressed for the occasion, having acquired a stately dress shirt in his favoured fashion, a bowtie and a clean suit.

Marian never beat around the bush. “Give me the girl.”

Over the rim of his cup Allen turned a blank yet speaking stare at the other red head.

Impassively, Marian met his gaze.

“Hello to you too. Long time no see. How have you been. That’s how civil conversation works, Marian.” Said Allen with his best indulging smile. “Condolences for Mana might also be appropriate.”

Flicking on a cigarette, Cross gave him a look full of disdain and scorn at the stupidity of the inane statement – the latter in particular if Allen had to guess.

Allen heaves a put upon sigh of the long suffering. “Fair enough.” If Cross didn’t know what Little Allen was, then that was his problem and in no way Allen’s to correct. However… “She goes by Allen nowadays. Walker if she wants. It’s not as though she doesn’t have a claim to it.”

Cross grunted. That sharp red eye never stopped dissecting Allen.

Having expected as much, Allen had put a lot of effort into his appearance and outward demeanor lest his mental state be seen through. It wasn’t like Allen could afford to lose more of his coherent mind.

“The akuma plant.” Cross said at last. Allen’s tea-stirring hand stilled. “You know where it is.”

Clicking the small spoon against the china before putting it down and lifting the cup to lips, Allen smiled blandly at Marian, not at all hiding the ice beneath. Truly, he was not in the right mental state for dueling with Marian. “How could I possibly.”

Corner of his mouth tugging down, the skin around his eyes tightened. So it was a guess. And a very desperate one that he came to Allen with it. Being not of the slow or dense kind, Cross should by now have enough of an insight into Allen to stop looking at him as though he was a puzzle with missing pieces. It was disturbing and irritating that he kept with that sharp assessment. Allen had too many secrets that he wanted to keep.

Allen sipped tea, the very picture of ease. “Suppose I did. What do I get in exchange?”

Even as the unexpectedness of the reply caught him, something clicked in Cross’ expression. As though a new thought that threw everything apart had occurred to him. Apparently he had not at all expected Allen to know. Possibly Allen had given too much away, but he couldn’t change that now.

“I give the girl an in with the Order.”

Peculiar way of phrasing. By virtue of having an Innocence attached she already has that in. Unless of course there were horrible things that could be discovered in her (or her past) that would come up to rear their head if she just walked up to a church. Being that there was an abundance of those very things (including some that Allen would very much like to keep hidden), Marian’s offer had more weight than it should.

Given that the other had obviously come intending to make that offer meant that he knew. Or guessed. About Little Allen. Who knew what else about what had been lying buried in memories for thirty years. Still, “Why should I care? What you do with her or don’t is none of my business now that Mana is gone.”

The red eye narrowed. Judgment was very much present and Allen was very much aware of how fast Exorcists were with their Innocence and could correspondingly calculate how much faster Marian was. Allen kept smiling, utterly unimpressed and raised an eyebrow. Faintly bored even – did Marian really think that he could get to Allen to just skip the usual dance by resorting to intimidation?

Marian’s head tilting faintly back, hair falling over his shoulder as his one visible eye alight with something that Allen didn’t like. The hair at the back of his neck stood. Suddenly Marian smirked, viciously and superior.

Allen showed supreme self-control by not strangling him on the spot. He sipped more tea and lowered his eyes in affected politeness.

“You not caring for that girl – I might have bought it even after you cleaned her, washed her, fed her while she was too busy being traumatized. For Mana, for boredom. But that’s not it at all. I get it now. Why the fuck _you_ are involved – still. With Mana and with that girl.” And he looked so very satisfied by his conclusions cats with their canaries paled in comparison. That _brat_. Allen’s eye started to twitch.

Putting the china down with more force than grace allowed, Allen splayed his palms flat on the table, careful to keep them in view and to not twist them into fists. What was _that _supposed to mean? What did Marian think he knew? About Allen? It was important because Allen was smart enough to recognize that his own role – perceived or not – would influence Marian’s actions. Cross Marian, highest ranking Exorcist of the one organization in the world that really mattered, bastard by nature and manipulator by choice. Marian’s choices...effected a whole lot of other people. Important people. Meaning what Marian knew or thought to know and how he acted on it determined how the land laid.

Not having been tied to anyone or invested in anything for decades, he had forgotten what it was like to _dislike_ someone and having to tolerate that very same person.

“Mah.” He said, smile glacial and like a dagger. “Think as you will.” And wasn’t that bitter to swallow – that he had no choice. That he had to keep some common ground with that bastard. “I will tell you the location. You will take Little Allen. Feel free to use her for what you need an apprentice, I don’t care. In return you owe me a favour and will teach her what she needs to survive.”

Smug, smug bastard that he was, the other smirked like Allen made a hilarious joke. But he nodded. It soothed Allen’s soul that that admittance seemed to painful for him. Allen imagined it was – someone like Marian made sure not to be indebted to anyone and have everyone indebted to him.

Minutes of subdued glaring later, Allen had finished his tea and his pastries. As he had paid in advance he left without catching anyone’s eye, making sure to be as unmemorable as can be. (He’d had practice with that, at least, long red hair or no.) Marian was long gone.

Making his way out of the small town, Allen headed towards the forest, walking without hurry but in such a way that he could be mistaken as strolling. The forest’s path was uneven and only sparsely traveled. No carriage would tread this path. Eventually it became an uphill walk and before long Allen reached the old, but still intact building look a great deal like a church. It wasn’t of course.

The woman living inside was trustworthy enough however that Allen had dropped by over the past decades occasionally. She was the secret-keeping kind. Or rather, the kind who came across secrets one way or another and didn’t care.

Little Allen stood in front of the door, waiting for him. “Hey,” he greeted softly, ruffling her hair. “What are you doing out here?”

Dead-eyed she looked up at him. The spark of life Allen had managed to get back into her over the last weeks was gone again but thankfully it hadn’t gone and taken her sanity with it. “Man inside. Take me away.”

No words more than necessary. There was a question in there somewhere. On anyone less dead accusation and hurt would be there as well. Not so Little Allen. She was just dead and flat and resigned to life in general.

Allen sighed, not surprised that Marian had arrived ahead of him. “Come with me,” he asked, offering her his gloved hand.

She took it without hesitation and entirely mechanically. Leading them around the back, Allen once more appreciated the care Mother and Barba put into maintaining the grounds. An old, wooden bench stood in the sun of the cold winter afternoon. Little Allen sat down at his prompting, watching him with big, soulful dark eyes. The jagged scar gave her face an odd imbalance.

Broken inside, clinging to Allen with all that she had because Allen was the last thing she had (of Mana or otherwise). Sitting down next to her, Allen gave pulled out her favourite treat out of his pocket and handed it to her. She took it without even looking at it, her eyes on the ground. Broken. Hopeless. No will to live.

“The man inside is Cross Marian,” he said eventually, keeping an arm around her shoulders. “He is an Exorcist and he’d like to take you as his apprentice.” That those words ever left his lips...didn’t that speak wonderfully for the state of the world? “The man, who offered you to bring Mana back, is the Creator. He does what he did to you to many people and besides you there is no one so fortunate to have an Innocence protect them when they agree to the deal.”

Little Allen had flinched violently at the mention of Mana, curling in on herself, gaining an air that clearly stated that she didn’t consider her arm fortunate and would have preferred to be without it that night.

_Yeah, well, we can’t all have what we want._ “I think you should go with him,” he told her softly as though she had a choice.

Somehow she curled up even tighter, like a knot. A rebound to the last weeks. But she didn’t disappear into her mind again. Given that her current sense of self-worth seemed to indicate that she was a sin on everyone she encountered it made sense that anything Allen said would be taken in a negative light.

She probably thought that after what she did to Mana he no longer wanted her around or she recalled that it was Mana who had taken her in, that he didn’t want her, that she didn’t deserve better, or any variation thereof.

Sighting, he got down to one knee in front of her, taking both her hands in his (only possible because he wore gloves and because she worse gloves), pulling them away from her knees and forcing her to look at him. He smiled warmly. There were no tears on her face, her eyes weren’t even red. “I’m not sending you away.” Her entire body jerked – spot on. “I’m not,” Allen repeated firmly. “You have something that very few other people have. That’s usually called a gift.” He told her, smiling kindly. “And you must learn to use yours.” He gave her left hand a squeeze before he became serious. “You have seen now what a dangerous world it is out there. Mana and I – we don’t want you to die. So you must learn to survive. I can’t teach you that – only Marian can.”

Somehow. Somewhat. In part. This was about two percent of the reasons.

Her eyes teared up. “Don’t want to. I want Mana.” Her eyes drew his stare. “You. Not – life.”

Allen hummed in acknowledgment. It wasn’t like he could say _that’s sweet of you but you’ve still got to go ‘cause I won’t have the time to take care of you now that things went so brilliantly sidewards._ _“_I know. But it doesn’t work like that anymore. The world got bigger now. There’s akuma and sorcerer dukes and magic arms and an Order that fights them. If you go with him, it won’t be forever. I’ll be joining them too, you know.”

Little Allen blinked, startled but still numb and only the faintest light of curiosity in her eyes.

Nodding, Allen sat down beside her again. “I won’t be able to fight, not like you. But I can do other things. I’m sure I can. Surely even Exorcists need support.”

Trembling from the cold but lacking to the will to do anything about it, the girl sniffed. Allen very consciously didn’t watch her, instead letting his gaze be caught by a squirrel as it scurried between the trees, carrying a nut with its teeth. Allen’s heart was not made of stone despite what other people (who saw beneath the surface enough) may think. It would be a lie to say Little Allen’s predicament didn’t touch his conscience, but it was war. With two sides or more. They both had to pick their places and play their roles eventually.

Best have her in one role before she became aware that she could play two – ignorance after all was the best shield.

“Do you mean...it? You aren’t...sending me away because I….?” Little Allen managed to voice at least an hour later. The sun was starting to sink and whatever warmth it had managed to get into the winter’s air was slipping away. He body was warm, though, running hotter than it used to. “We’re still…?”

_We-_ll. It was slightly humorous what sort of loaded and difficult-to-answer questions the ignorant were able to pose.

Was he sending her way? Most definitely. Did he do it because he couldn’t be bothered with her anymore or because of what she did to Mana or because of her arm? Allen’s skin had not yet turned gray though he felt it under his skin, deep and still and lethal like the ocean at night. When her arm was around, the Innocence grated against his senses, scratching and tearing at the surface and the mere skin of a human body was not at all a thick wall between two opposing forces or much of a wall at all. Especially now that the parasite had awakened. Allen felt its cold, murderous intent which made it all the odder that it was attached to Little Allen in the first place.

Mana hadn’t cared. Probably hadn’t had enough strings of his mind in hand to recognize what he felt – if he indeed had felt at all. In the first place, Mana was the caring sort who loved someone even if they stabbed him in the back – Mana would have only cared about the pain that betrayal caused the one doing the betraying. That was Mana. Lovable, warm, sickly and caring Mana. Turning him into an akuma. The mere thought of it left Allen ice cold and murderous. But that was all; the mere thought alone – nothing more, because there really wasn’t anything realistic to it. Mana as an akuma. Ridiculous. An impossible notion that did not make it past that fist, impulsive reaction. Whatever rest issues Allen may have had with an ‘akuma of Mana’ were resolved the moment Little Allen destroyed whatever manifestation of Mana said akuma had been. If Allen had a problem with her mess he would certainly not resolve it by ‘sending her away’ either.

“Of course we’re family,” he told her, infusing warmth and all the sincerity he could into his voice. “Family isn’t something that just disappears because someone made a mistake. It sticks with you for life and after, Little Allen.” His lips curved sardonic. “I’m sorry, but even if you hate me or Mana, that’s never going to change.”

Her scar twisted as her face betrayed denial that she could ever feel that way. Cute. Where did she think the greatest tragedies were born? What tragedy did she think made _her?_

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Standing on the doorstep early the next morning, as mist was still crawling between the trees, Allen, Mother and Barba waved goodbye to Little Allen as she went with Marian to begin her education. As Little Allen kept looking over her shoulder, hesitant, so Allen remained in place until the newly minted Master-Apprentice duo was out of sight. The moment they were, Allen dropped his arm and his smile and rubbed his hands to get warmth back into them.

The scene of farewell that they all had unanimously posed for fell apart like a card house. Mother’s suspicious eyebrow drilled into the side of his head. “And? What do _you _plan now?”

Allen turned back inside, glad to be out of the morning chill when his blood pressure was not yet up to compensate. “Are you really interested?”

She snorted, sticking her pipe between her lips and speaking around it. “As if. Just wanted to know if I should start building up stocks.”

It was Allen’s turn to snort. Barba was still wiping his nose outside and waving after Little Allen. “That’s always a good idea. You should know better than to rely on fortune.”

The sweet smell of smoked grass slowly filled the old building’s main room. Wood creaked as Mother sunk into her favorite rocking chair. “That’s true enough. Particularly with you lot hanging around.” Wood clicked against metal as she flicked some ash out of her pipe. “Don’t know why I bother.”

“Neither do I,” observed Allen idly as he gathered his belongings that over the course of their stay had become spread all around the house. “A rare wisdom, I suppose. Or a special kind of madness. Maybe both.” A wry smile curled his lips with the look he shot her over his shoulder. “Whichever you prefer.”

Mother puffed out curls of smoke and laughed a weathered crackling sound. He was near done packing, closing the latches on his suitcase when she spoke up again.

“Have you been around the mansion lately?”

Allen froze. His heart jumped once before settling back into its regular pattern, blood like ice in his veins. He clicked the locks shut and rose to his feet, pulling the suitcase up with him in the same motion. He looked at Mother, smiling at her and how she watched him with her very own expression of hawk-like attention and disinterested boredom. “Which mansion do you mean? The Cambell’s? Which of them?”

Rolling her eyes, Mother stated flatly, “don’t bother playing that game with me boy. I don’t know how you did it, but I know who I’m speaking to.”

Suddenly the chill Allen felt had nothing to do with his secret anymore. “I’m Allen Walker.”

Mother switched the pipe from one corner of her mouth to another, and raised both eyebrows at him.

Pressing his lips together, Allen repeated, more firmly, “I’m Allen Walker.”

Her eyebrows lowered into her face, looking at him again. Staring, comparing, assessing. She chewed on the stem of her pipe. “… so you are. Now I’m almost curious enough to want to know what you did.”

When she said ‘you’ this time it was no longer a clear substitute for a name that went better not spoke, but neither was it a stand in for ‘Allen’. The hair stood at the back of Allen’s neck. After Marian she was the second in a far too short time to not just be thrown off by something in Allen, but to recognize it and _place_ it. As early as now. “But you won’t ever ask.”

Making a derisive sound in the back of her throat, Mother turned her gaze out the window. “God bless you, no. I want to spend the rest of my days in peace and not plagued by nightmares.”

Allen’s smile warmed with his blood. “You truly are wise. If only more people shared your opinion.” A compliment. Allen couldn’t remember the last time he had given one (aside from encouragement to Little Allen, but that was different).

“Then we’d all live as hermits in abandoned buildings and where would I go for my special brand of tobacco if not to the market?” The old woman retorted, annoyed.

Chuckles made it past his lips as he took his coat from the hook, flaring as he slipped it on. He had bought it a long time ago and it showed the signs, the color bleached and the occasional hole stitched over yet not so run down that it appeared ratty. It still served its purpose of letting him slip in and out of crowds.

“Thank you for letting Little Allen and me stay here, Mother,” he said to the elderly woman as he was about to open the door. “It was nice seeing you again.” He bowed and was about to leave when Mother’s voice halted him.

“You should wear glasses again,” she said, her gaze on the sky outside like a normal old woman. “Watch how you appear. Whoever you are, there are too many superficial similarities. Watch it.”

Allen opened his mouth. Closed it. He turned the words over in his head, but now was not the time to mull their meaning over. Instead he just bowed again and this time turned the doorknob without pause.

After bidding farewell to Barba Allen was on his way, enjoying the walk in the fresh morning air, his pace steady and sure.

Now that he was walking on again there were a number of things he had to catch up on. While he had to see through his fake identities and filter out those that wouldn’t stand up to the scrutiny of the Vatican from the particular angle they would be looking at him at and further develop those that would, his first priority was…

The Earl was not in the habit of walking around in plain daylight so Allen’s search for him was limited to nights and graveyards or the occasional mysterious murder in hopes of an akuma.

It was peculiar and increasingly irritating how murderous machines or their creator could not be found anywhere when you wanted them while possessing the special talent of always being there when you didn’t want them. Allen always seemed to arrive just in the aftermath. Truly, it was _quite _irritating.

His tentative hold on both his temper and patience was slipping through his fingers with every new day and, quite frankly, had he not found the promising trail the moment he did he might have screwed several things up that would have come back to bite him in the long term.

But is just so happened that the train carrying him through the country, more or less towards home (that he probably should not head for given that it was very much telling and any investigator that was going to trace his steps some years in the future would certainly find said mansion), stopped over night in a small village barely big enough to qualify for a station.

Allen stepped off the train as the sky was alight with evening’s glow, red-orange and darkening quickly. Chill penetrated his clothes, biting into the skin of his face and once the sun completely dropped it would only become colder. Renting a room for the night in the local inn, Allen sat down at the bar, ignoring the raucous patrons celebrating after a long day of work as he focused a disarming smile on the matron.

After the cold outside it was almost stifling warm and the smell of humans hung heavy in the air. A fire crackled away at the stove in the joining kitchen, a pot hanging over it from which the matron filled a plate with Allen’s dinner.

“Here you go, good sir. One homemade stew after a long day of travel. It’ll fill you right up.” She set it down in front of him, her smile smoothing the rough edges of her sturdy appearance. “A handsome young man must eat or the ladies will walk right over you. Don’t you start looking too fragile.”

Spoon halfway to his mouth, Allen actually paused for a brief moment. He caught himself, blew on the stew to cool it and swallowed. “Hmmm. Delicious. This is quite the skill at cooking that you have, Ma’am.” The back of his mind kept irrationally turning ‘ladies’ over and over – it was such a ridiculous, common, mortal concern; it just occurred to Allen how long it has been since anything of its likeness crossed his mind. He didn’t know how he felt about that. “Nut much travel must pass through here. Surely otherwise the whole country would know where to find its best cuisine.”

The matron blinked at him, then laughed a full-belly laugh that shook her entire body and blended in with the background noise. “Oh my, oh my,” wiping tears of laughter from her eyes, she gave him an amused and appreciative look. “Wasting compliments on an old crone like me, your mother must have been quite the fine woman.” Her hands picked up the task of cleaning glasses.

Allen took another swallow and gave a polite, humble smile. “She taught me to only ever speak the truth.” His eyes glimmered with shared humor.

The matron laughed again. Shaking her head, she said, “what a silver tongue you have. And what manners! If you didn’t have the look of a wanderer about you, I’d see to it that you’d have have the village’s available girls before you before the night’s out.” She gave him a critical once over. “Half – what am I talking – all of them. And some unavailable besides.”

Chuckling Allen said, “I am quite grateful for my wanderer’s look then as I’m not available. I am quite sincere however about this stew. My compliments.” He dipped his head.

The built woman’s smile softened. “I will pass the compliment along. It will be good for young Elsa to hear that there are people out there who appreciate her.” She sighed, exchanging a now dry glass for a wet one, eyes on her task. “It was such a tragedy, you know. Leaving her all alone.”

Scraping the last of the stew onto his spoon, Allen concealed a sharp pike of interest. “I cannot imagine. What sort of misfortune could possibly befall the people in a village as peaceful as this?” He offered with deep sympathy.

The matron nodded, agreeing in the way people had when something penetrated the routine of their lives – inconceivable events, truly, even when it might be a regular occurrence in another part of the world.

It was so that Allen the very recent story of a baker loosing his life in an accident and leaving his ten year old daughter an orphan reached his ears. The incident was not even three days old, the girl was taken care of by the local community in general and the matron in particular, and the funeral was planned for tomorrow. Apparently the poor girl had hardly slept a wink since, only managed to cook with much prodding and spent her every free moment at her burned down former home.

Allen thanked the warm-hearted woman for both dinner and the company she provided and mentioned that he would like to take an evening walk to enjoy the fresh air and help digestion and _please, don’t expect me back soon, no there’s no need to wait up._

His breath fogged the moment stepped outside, the light and warmth of the homey hearth cutting off. It was dark in a way only sparsely populated land was. No lanterns on the streets, no smog rising from the streets. Only the soft glow from windows showed Allen which way to go.

It was a prefect night, cloudy, clear and silent. Allen recalled having seen the burned remains of a building earlier and indeed, the only difference was that this time when he passed it, there was a figure kneeling in the rubble.

Allen tasted the tang of pain and grief in the air as clearly as the smells in the inn. It was a good thing Allen had brought his coat, because as he waited, eyes on the girl, warmth left him quickly and it proved to be a long night.

The last windows had darkened, men had staggered drunkenly through the village and even the inn seemed to be closing for the night when darkness manifested. Allen sighed.

Jumping from his perch a couple roofs over, he made his way to the suffering soul willing to grasp at any chance of salvation – of _fixing _things. Darkness welled up inside; as if things that happened could _ever_ be fixed. To witness again and again that humans were so conceited to believe that for them – _for them and their pain_\- there’d be second chances, that things would be _different, just for them and their pain_.

Allen almost wanted to see the girl die just for that. But he had come here for a reason.

“Oh my, someone out here in the cold this late,” Allen spoke, his voice cutting through the spell-bound atmosphere. He approached the girl easily. “What are you doing out here all alone?”

The girl, ten maybe eleven, stared at him in a distant not-quite-there way, but even as Allen watched her eyes cleared ans she immediately shrank in on herself. Fear and guilt and pain and forbidden longing in her posture. Her eyes darted to the Earl, whom Allen very thoroughly ignored despite feeling the mad eyes on him. “Shouldn’t you head inside,” he suggested warmly. “You’ll catch your death out here.”

She flinched. Probably didn’t particularly care if she died, but being called out on it by some stranger...well. Allen knew a thing or two two how pride and dignity could make people do very strange things. Slowly, she got to her feet, her skirt and robe just as covered in ash as the fingers that had dug into the earth in despair. Shouldered curved down in such a pathetic sight of misery that any person with a shred of goodness in them would feel their heart twist in sympathy. Though luck. Allen traded his heart in some time ago. Head down she still kept staring at the Earl. “I….”She said.

“My dear girl,” the Millennium Earl’s said, voice all soft and sympathetic. “Don’t you want to see your father again?”

She seemed to forget again that Allen was around.

“I can bring him back for you.”

Cue desperate longing and hope. “...you...can?”

Allen waved a hand in the girl’s line of sight, moving himself between human and demon. “Are you quite alright? There is no one there. Who are you talking to?”

The Earl cleared his throat politely and pointedly at Allen’s back. Allen pointedly didn’t react.

The girl stared at him distantly, despairingly. She tried to look around him to glimpse the hope the Earl offered. Allen kept her attention by putting a concerned hand on her shoulder. “But...that man… he-”

“There is no one there,” Allen cut her off, tone soothing and pronounced to convince. “You must be Elsa. I’ve heard about you in the inn. I know it must be hard, but why don’t you run along? The matron must be worried sick about you.”

The irritation at his back increased. But something approaching life re-entered the little human’s eyes.

“But...” She tried again. Looked for the Earl.

Allen turned her around and gave her a gentle shove towards the street, out of the ashes of her home. “Off you go.” He smiled and shushed her along. She glimpsed the Earl again, but didn’t stop as Allen called, “Remember to seek out a priest – surely they can help when seeing things that aren’t there.”

Dark energies pointed at his back increased twice fold and once the girl was out of sight, Allen turned around, smiling at the figure of the most powerful creature on earth. “Long time no see. How have you been?”

The Earl tilted his head. Madness shone out of his amber eyes. Allen wondered how much, if_ this one_ recognized him or if he had forgotten as well. Like Mana had. (It hurt.)

But the Earl put a hand to his cheek, tilted his head and gave him a crushing hug. “Neah,” he said, and his voice broke.

Allen closed his eyes. His head dropped to rest on the other’s shoulder, his arms encircling the warm body with sudden, desperate trembling. His eyes stung and something hot burned in his chest. “Mana,” breathed Neah, the gears of a frozen clock moving again, a frozen life starting again.


End file.
